


The Coldest Summer

by Vermin_Disciple



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermin_Disciple/pseuds/Vermin_Disciple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It was always going to be ill-timed, Sam. That’s why we kept putting it off.” </i>Putting it off<i>, like it was a trip to the dentist instead of a nice holiday in the sun.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Coldest Summer

**Author's Note:**

> The only reason this is set in SFO is because I wrote it at the end of a stressful semester, when I rather desperately wanted to go home to the Bay Area. I admit it's not the most sensible place to have a layover en route to Monterrey, but then I'm not convinced that airlines use earth logic anyway.

From what she could see of San Francisco – which admittedly wasn’t much, even from the oversized airport windows – it looked like a cold place, and she was glad they were just passing through. The morning fog hung heavy in the air, gray as the little piece of the Pacific they’d seen from the aeroplane as they descended. Mexico, her guide books informed her, would be hot and sultry at this time of year, a welcome change from the literal and metaphorical gloom of Manchester. 

DI Maya Roy – no, just Maya. They didn’t even have DIs or DCIs here, or in Mexico, and for the next two weeks they would be _Maya_ and _Sam_ for a change, not DCI Tyler and DI Roy. Her warrant card was five thousand miles away, sitting in a desk drawer in their shiny, sparsely decorated flat. 

Sam’s was in his carry-on luggage. 

Maya pursed her lips at the two cups of coffee in her hands as she passed a store selling a variety of over-priced souvenirs. When she’d left, he’d been checking his email on his Blackberry. 

She strolled past a colorful tile mosaic on the wall and then paused to examine a display of sweatshirts bearing a sparkling silhouette of the Golden Gate. She hadn’t packed anything warmer than a t-shirt, and was shivering a little. She could buy one of these, she supposed, but it felt wrong somehow, buying a souvenir from a place she wasn’t visiting. 

Maybe she would come back some day; she’d always heard that San Francisco was a lovely city.

She’d talked to an American couple in the queue when she’d gone for the coffee, who called it “The City” as if it was the only one. They were from a town she’d never heard of an hour north of here, and complimented her accent as if it were something she ornamented herself with in the morning like a pair of earrings. They were friendly though, even as they happily complained about the latest security measures, and she was almost disappointed when they rushed off in the opposite direction to await a flight to Vancouver. When she returned to their seats, Sam was guiltily stuffing his mobile back into his pocket. 

He'd upgraded them both to an international plan for this trip, but if he kept this up, his phone bill was going to cost more than their entire holiday. 

“It was DI Goodall, about the Fossey case,” he said. “They’ve found—”

“George can handle it. You put him in charge of the investigation, remember?” 

“It’s a very delicate operation,” he said stiffly. “And it just got a lot more delicate.” Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “This—I can’t help feeling that this is a bit—ill-timed, Maya.” 

He sounded more apologetic than annoyed, which only made it worse. She could snap at him – easily – when he gave her that chilly look and that sharp, condescending tone. She could show him that he wasn’t the reigning grand master of sarcasm, no matter how icy his deadpan was. But when he was like this… 

The dark circles under his eyes were older than the jet lag, but there was more to it than that. It was like the distance between him and his precious CID was sucking the life-force out of him. 

Suddenly, absurdly, she found herself wishing that she’d been able to find a direct flight. As if that would make things better, somehow. 

Now she was sighing too. It was hard to look into those brown eyes and _not_ sigh. 

“It was always going to be ill-timed, Sam. That’s why we kept putting it off.” _Putting it off_ , like it was a trip to the dentist instead of a nice holiday in the sun. “There’s always crime. It’s _all_ important. But all of it doesn’t need to be important to _you_ all of the time. You’re not the only talented detective in Manchester. Let it go. Let someone else deal with it. _Please_.” 

Sam pursed his lips, and the mobile rang. _Oh no, not me, I never lost control_ , sang David Bowie, incongruous as always, like a tiny fragment of the person Sam had been before the inter-departmental meetings expunged the last of the poetry from his soul. 

He answered it, of course, averting his eyes from her expression of resignation. 

Maya fumbled through her bag for her own phone. 

“Yes, I know you’ve got him on possession, but that’s not – hang on, I’m getting another call. Hello, DCI Tyler speaking.” 

“I’m going to chuck the bloody thing in the ocean as soon as we land, if you don’t give it a rest.” 

Sam turned to look at her, frozen. Then he smiled, tight-lipped, and turned the phone off. He clasped her hand in his and leaned over to kiss her. His fingers were cold. 

It was a small and temporary victory, in a small and insignificant skirmish. She gazed out the window at the overcast sky, and suspected that she had already lost the war. 

_Finis_


End file.
